At the Bottom of a Well
by Channel D
Summary: Tim has been living well off the advances and royalties from his books. What happens when the money runs out? Drama in 5 chapters. Written for the NFA Thom E Gemcity the Writer challenge. Mild season 5 and 6 references. Now complete.
1. Part I

**At the Bottom of a Well**

**by channelD**

written for: the NFA _Thom E Gemcity_ _the Writer_ challenge  
rating: K plus  
genre: drama  
warning: very mild season 5 references/season 6 speculation

- - - - -

**Part I**

"_Yee-owww!!"_

Tim yelped as the hot pan of marinara sauce slipped from his hands. The pan clattered to the floor and sauce flew everywhere. Without looking down, Tim knew that his new 700 shearling jacket was now wearing his dinner's sauce. More than likely, it was ruined.

Now he understood why his mother never cooked dinner while in her work clothes. Momentarily, he panicked at the thought of wearing an apron—and having Tony find out about it. He'd just have to wear old, casual clothes from now on; that was all there was to it.

But first to the matter at hand: take off the jacket and wipe it off as best as he could, wipe up the mess on the floor, order in a pizza. As annoying as it was to have to replace this coat (only purchased last week!), at least he could afford to do so. All thanks to Thom E. Gemcity.

- - - - -

_Thom E. Gemcity!_ The renowned writer of two (so far!) best-sellers of criminal investigation mysteries. He was a bit of a man of mystery, declining to go on talk shows, and only appearing at a few, select book signings. The photo on the inside back flap of the dust jacket showed a man (apparently of means) in shadows, looking oh-so-cool without being unapproachable. It had taken hours in the photographer's studio to get just the right look. Tim had wanted the photo to have an air different from his own, so he would be less likely to be recognized and mobbed on the street. And so far, it had worked. All the pleasures of being famous with none of the troubles.

Thanks to his alter ego of Thom E. Gemcity, Tim could afford a number of luxuries. Besides the little pampering he treated himself to in the form of expensive clothing, a Porsche, and electronics, he was branching out. Recent purchases included a time-share in the Bahamas, and for his parents' upcoming 35th anniversary, a cruise around Africa. He'd also withdrawn a sizeable portion of his savings and plunged it into an investment that was fairly risky, but which could pay off very handsomely if things went right.

It was nice to be the other side of Thom E. Gemcity, and not have any money worries.

- - - - -

No news yet on his third book. The first three chapters of his manuscript had been at his publisher's for over two weeks now. She hadn't called or emailed him. She wasn't returning his phone calls. _Odd_…

When Tim finally got a live person at the company, it was a man answering Ms. Crawshaw's line. "She's no longer with the firm," he said. "I'm Derek Fisher, taking her place. Can I help you with something?"

Tim explained who he was—who Gemcity was, he added quickly to cover Fisher's silence. The Gemcity name always made people snap to attention.

"Well, I am new to this department," said Fisher. "The manuscript doesn't ring a bell with me. I'll look around and get back to you."

Tim hung up, wondering what the confusion was. And why had Crawshaw left? She must have gotten a better job offer. He shrugged and got online as his dog, Jethro, roused himself from his dog bed and put his muzzle in Tim's lap. "Good dog," Tim said, absently, scratching his neck. Jethro's dog bed was pretty standard; purchased in haste from the closest pet store when Abby had thrust Jethro upon him. Although Jethro would never complain, Tim was sure he could find something better for his furry friend.

He found a popular dog furnishings site. _Ah, yes; that looks nice._ "Do you like this, Jethro?" Tim asked, pointing at the screen. Jethro only sat and grinned at him, panting. "Well, I'm going to order it for you. See, it's like a little couch, in that donut shape you dogs like. We'll get a really nice fabric, too. Micro-suede. What color would you prefer? The blue? Yeah, I like that one, too. And how about a matching throw?" A few clicks and it was ordered. With shipping and handling, it all came to over 400, which was more than four times what Tim had spent on Jethro's current dog bed. No matter. Money was not a consideration anymore.


	2. Part II

**Part II**

Five days later a thin envelope arrived from the publisher's office. Tim held it up to the light before opening it, to see if he could read the amount on the check for his advance inside. Then he remembered they'd finally switched to safety envelopes last year. With his letter opener he slit it open and popped the letter out. There was no check!

_Dear Mr. Gemcity,_ Fisher's letter to him began, incorrectly. Crawshaw had always called him _Timothy_.

_I have reviewed your manuscript and determined that it does not meet our current needs. _

_Thank you for thinking of our company, and best of luck in your future endeavors._

_Sincerely yours,_

Tim stared at the letter, stunned. He read it again and again, and then slammed it down on the table. Getting up, he called, "Jethro! Walk!" and grabbed the leash from the hook beside the door. Jethro jumped and barked, eagerly. Tim snapped on the leash and the two were out quickly, in an attempt to put distance between themselves and that letter.

- - - - -

Work the next day was difficult. For one thing, Tim hadn't been able to sleep at all that night. Repercussions of the rejection of his book flooded his mind, all demanding attention. What did rejection mean? Was it a problem with his manuscript? Something the company didn't like about him? What would this do to his reputation? His cash inflow?

He tried to keep his expression bland, but perhaps it was the matching set of bags under his eyes that called attention to him. That, and his stumbling into his desk. A slap on the back of his head woke him up. "McGee! Try getting some sleep tonight!" Gibbs ordered.

Tim nodded without answering, his mind already drifting. He logged onto his computer and regretted that he'd just purchased a spiffy new laptop for home use. Top of the line. He'd already set it up and installed stuff on it, so he couldn't return it now. And the credit card bill hadn't come in yet.

"Hey, McGeek!"

Tim raised his head to face Tony. _Not now not now…_

"Aren't you working on a third book along about now? The nobody-asked-for-them-but-nevertheless-still-continuing adventures of L. J. Tibbs?" Tony smirked. "You said awhile back that this was the month…"

_Me and my big mouth._ Tim glanced around the area. Gibbs wasn't there. Tony wouldn't be on him about the book on company time, otherwise. _Darn my luck._ "I'm trying to work here, Tony," Tim said in a moderately acid tone that he hoped sounded convincing.

"Glad someone is," Gibbs said, swinging by with a fresh coffee.

Sighing to himself, Tim focused again on his monitor, but he could feel Tony's eyes on him. He knew he wouldn't be able to stall Tony forever, but he'd do it for as long as he could. He didn't think he could tolerate the glee his coworkers would have when they heard that the book had been rejected. _And here I was about to make Agent Tommy a bit of a hero in this book, _Tim thought. It would have been nice to have the character he'd modeled after Tony come out a better person. Not that any of that mattered now.

- - - - -

Day by day, Tim's world grew bleaker and bleaker. Sure, he was still getting paid at work, but his credit card bills were astronomical lately, and the paycheck barely covered those and his rent. He sat down and made a list of the things he had expected to buy shortly, to see how many he could cross off. Tuesday: Release of new books and new DVDs. Scratch those. New jacket? His shearling jacket was a loss. He could make do with his old trench coat. Thank goodness he hadn't tossed that when he became wealthy. New sound system for the car? Not now. The Italian shoes he'd longed for…he sighed and told himself no. Not yet. Other things, large and small, also dropped off.

Jethro's new dog bed arrived, and it was a beauty. The dog was taken with it immediately, and though Tim longed to return it, in his heart he knew he couldn't deprive his faithful friend because of his own troubles. Jethro bounced and bounced until Tim had it fully unwrapped and set on the floor. Stepping into the bed gracefully, Jethro then turned around three times and then lay down, grinning. That was one happy dog. Tim had to smile. "Good dog," he said, softly.

- - - - -

Checking his finances online confirmed what Tim had feared: his ready cash was evaporating. Worse, his risky investment had tanked. An enormous portion of his savings was gone, just like that, and would not likely come back.

He had some money in certificates of deposit, but nothing close to maturing date. There would be a substantial penalty for early withdrawal. He was reluctant to go that route just yet. In fact, he was growing reluctant to do much of anything that involved leaving his apartment. Driving meant using gas. Going to a store ran the risk of buying something. Since the stunning news from Fisher, Tim hadn't eaten out at all, living instead on what he had at home.

Now he surveyed the contents of his refrigerator and his cupboards. They were nearly empty. After feeding Jethro, Tim decided to walk, rather than drive, to the grocery store. It was only about 1.5 miles away. He returned with a sack full of ramen noodle pouches: cheap nutrition (though a little high in sodium). Ah, memories of his college days. From here in, his belt would tighten.

- - - - -

Tim called the phone company and canceled his landline. Most people called him now on his cell phone, anyway. The next thing to go was the cable TV account. Tim winced at that, but he'd be needing the money. Then the gym membership. He could stay late at work or come in early and use NCIS' facilities. Several other little things, like the wine-of-the-month club, would not be renewed. He hadn't yet booked a plane ticket home for Christmas. Somehow, he would come up with an excuse for that, though his parents wouldn't be happy.

The one thing he couldn't give up was his internet account. That, like Jethro, was too much a part of his life. Besides, he sometimes did work from home. At least that was one little pleasure he'd have.

- - - - -

For the first time in his life, Tim bounced a check.

It wasn't done deliberately, but Tim was embarrassed enough to want to die. It was the rent check. The landlord was pretty good about it since Tim had been a good tenant, but Tim apologized profusely and promised to make good on it right away when the phone call came at work.

He left work early and went to his bank, his hands shaking as he filled out the form to request liquidation of his oldest CD. "Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. McGee?" asked the teller. "If you just wait another…57 days—"

"I know, but I want to do it now."

"But we'll have to impose a penalty—"

Tim felt his face grow red as he tried to hold back the tears. "I know. But I need the money now."

The teller gave him a sympathetic smile, making him feel even more embarrassed. He counted the cash she gave him, and then turned most of it into a money order for the landlord. There was about 300 dollars cash left over. He would stretch it until it screamed for mercy.

- - - - -

The next day, his car broke down on the highway on the way home from work.

Tim popped the hood and guessed that the problem was a broken belt, but he would be the first to admit that he was no mechanic. He was sure he didn't have the money to get it fixed, so he had the car towed home. There he sat and fretted while absently playing with Jethro. Taking the bus again wouldn't be so bad, although the direct bus to M Street cost more than the Metro did. So, the Metro it would be. And if necessary, he could hitchhike home in the evenings.

Jethro nuzzled his hand as they sat in the park, willing him to throw the ball again. _Jethro._ That was one area in which Tim couldn't see any way to cut back. Jethro's dogfood was already on a discount delivery plan. He was walked by a college student every day, part of a dog-walking service. Obviously Jethro needed the exercise; Tim couldn't give that up. And he wouldn't, no matter how many sacrifices he had to make. If he had to, he would find a new home for the dog…but it would break his heart to see him go.

- - - - -

That night, in the laundry room of his apartment building, Tim was putting quarters in the washing machine's slot when one fell to the floor and rolled away. Frantically, Tim dove for the rolling coin. It went under the machine, which was elevated about an inch off the ground. He scrambled to get it out, though he couldn't even see just where it had gone. It wasn't within his hand's reach, nor within the extension of a pen to his grasp. He looked around the room, wildly. On a hook on the wall hung a broom. Tim grabbed it, and for about 20 minutes swept under the washer with the broom handle, until out came a quarter (actually, three quarters at once!). He laughed and shook with relief just this side of terror. He'd never thought he would be in straits this desperate.

- - - - -

At work a week later, he found it hard to concentrate. This was not too surprising; he'd felt that way yesterday, though not to this degree. Slightly warm, slightly light-headed. _I must be coming down with something…_ He took another sip of water from his coffee mug. Blessed water. Not the bottled water that his parents disdained (" 'designer water', for people too cowardly to drink tap water," his mother said), but plain, cold, decent enough water from the faucet in the break room. Thirst-quenching, and best of all: free. He could drink it all day long, and was, in fact, doing that. If only his stomach didn't hurt from the ever-present hunger.

"McGee! The Milano case. I need those files!" Gibbs barked.

"Uh, yeah, boss. I'll bring them right over." Tim stood, only to find the floor unsteady. He made a grab for the edge of his desk, but someone turned the lights down to gray and unidentifiable sounds swirled around him as he fell.


	3. Part III

**Part III**

"Timothy, open your eyes._ Timothy!"_

The voice was insistent, and something…smelling salts, evidently…irritated Tim's nose, making him shake his head. His eyes wobbled open and saw Ducky's big blue eyes meeting his. Tim was a little surprised to find himself lying on the floor, next to his desk.

"Ah, there you are, lad. Care to tell us what happened?"

_Us, indeed._ Tim saw that Tony, Ziva and Gibbs stood clustered around him, looking concerned. "I'm okay," Tim said, and tried to get up, but his limbs didn't obey him.

"Your team says you fainted," Ducky corrected him, and put a hand to his chest to mildly push him back down. "That's not okay. You've lost weight. What did you have for lunch?"

"He did not have anything," Ziva spoke up. "Just as he did not yesterday, nor the day before. And he only drinks water."

"No Americano on your way into work?" Tony smirked. "What happened; did your favorite coffee shop close down?"

Tim silently cursed Ziva for her powers of observation, and Tony for his callous remark. And while he was at it, he cursed himself for getting into this mess.

"Timothy, are you dieting? You have no need for it," said Ducky, while casually checking his pulse and blood pressure. "When did you last eat?"

Tim didn't answer until Ducky repeated the question and Gibbs crouched down to his level, meeting his eyes. "Last night," Tim said softly.

"You skipped breakfast? Why, lad?"

"My dinner was sufficient."

Ducky didn't buy that, to no one's surprise. "And what did you eat in this substantial dinner of yours?"

"A cup of ramen noodles."

"And? What else?"

"I had a glass of water with it."

Ducky looked aghast. "That's only two or three hundred calories! Timothy, why the fasting?" He stared at Tim, and then his eyes narrowed. "And just how long have you been doing this?"

Tim looked away. "About a week. Or ten days. I don't remember exactly." Seeing the disbelief on everyone's faces made his protective walls crumble, and he felt the last of his dignity go with it. Fighting back tears, he said, "Yes, that's all I'm eating. Because I'm broke. My third book was rejected by my publisher. I was expecting the advance money from it. I'd over-extended myself. So go ahead and laugh. You know you want to. McGee finally gets his come-uppance. Thom E. Gemcity has crashed and burned. Film at 11." He laughed, mirthlessly.

Ducky looked grave. "You're hypoglycemic. You can't abuse your body like this, Timothy." He looked at the team. "One of you, run and get an orange juice for him." Ziva was off running almost before Ducky finished talking. "That will get something in your system for the short term. No, Timothy; don't try sitting up yet."

Ziva was back in a flash with a container of juice and a straw. Gibbs and Ducky helped him sit up to drink it. "There's only about an hour left in the day," said Gibbs. "We've been working hard. Let's all go home. McGee, did you drive in?"

Tim swallowed. "My car, uh, broke down. It's, uh, at home. I haven't…"

"How have you been getting to work?"

"Metro. Although lately…" his voice dropped to a whisper. "…I've been, uh…hitchhiking."

Tony scowled, but Gibbs only nodded. "I'll drive you home," Gibbs said.

Tim smiled, for the first time in days. "Thanks, boss. That'll save me some energy."

"Not _your_ home, McGee. _My_ home. _Someone's_ got to see that you eat."

So relieved he almost cried, Tim choked and nodded. Then he stopped. "But boss; I have to look after Jethro—"

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "We'll stop by your place and pick him up."

"I don't want to see you back here for a week, Timothy," Ducky directed. "And you'd better regain some weight in the meantime."

Things were looking up. Gibbs and Ziva helped Tim to his feet.

Tony had been oddly silent. As he picked up his own gear to take home, Tony suddenly stepped in front of Tim, a furious look on his face. "I swear, McGee; you are a real piece of work, you know that? Man alive; I thought you were smarter than this. You disgust me." He turned on his heel and strode out, over Tim's shocked look and Gibbs' cry of "DiNozzo!!"

"What's eating him, I wonder?" Ducky murmured. "Well, don't let it upset you, whatever it is, Timothy. You eat, rest, and build your strength back up. That's an order."

Tim was hardly listening. This was the rejection he'd been expecting from the others…though without the laughter. It hurt, just as he knew it would. The humiliation, the feeling of falling, the sense of worthlessness all came back to him, and he shivered. It was all he could do to keep from fainting again.

- - - - -

The drive to Gibbs' house, after picking up Jethro, Jethro's food and stuff, and changes of clothes for Tim, took almost no time. Red-faced, Tim admitted that he had few clean clothes left, and related the story of the runaway quarter from his last laundry undertaking almost two weeks ago. "Got a washer and dryer," Gibbs only grunted. "You don't need quarters at my house. Bring all your laundry."

"Thanks, boss," said Tim. He felt ashamed to be taking a hand-out. He wondered if he would ever stop being embarrassed.

True to form, Gibbs said nothing about Tim's situation. He cooked up dinner for two, but served Tim a smaller portion. Tim would have to have several small portions throughout the day until he got used to eating normally. Jethro curled up at Tim's feet; perhaps sensing Tim's stress in this unfamiliar environment.

The doorbell rang, and Jethro beat Gibbs to the door handily. The dog sniffed the air, and then wagged his tail. It was Ziva at the door, carrying a cake. "It is just a simple spice cake," she said. "I thought you two might like desert. And I thought I might join you, if that is all right,"

Gibbs waved her in, smiling wryly at her little sneakiness. "Just a small piece for McGee," he said, getting down desert plates.

Ziva took a mouthful of her cake, and washed it down with water. "I will not beat around the brush," she then said. "McGee, I have to know what went wrong with the sale of your book."

"Why?" Tim asked, warily.

"If I am to help you, it will be better if I do not go in cool."

" 'Cold'," Tim corrected. "I don't think there's anything anyone can do to help. I probably pissed off someone at the company."

"Did you ask them?"

"No; not really. Crawshaw—who used to be my editor—no longer works there."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask."

"Why not?"

"Stop that! It's over. It's done with. Thom E. Gemcity has written his last words. Rumor has it he's gone out west and is washing dishes at a bar in some two-bit town that started dying in the '50s, when the interstate was built 30 miles to the south."

Ziva laughed. "It sounds to me like Mr. Gemcity is alive and well inside you still."

Tim looked a little flustered, and then turned pale. "He always had a better life than I had…I'm just a cop and a geek, living off his money. He gets the glamour, the fame, the wealth. He's…better than…" His voice trailed off before he could finish the sentence.

Gibbs and Ziva exchanged concerned looks. "Ducky said you were to get a lot of rest, McGee. Why don't you turn in now? If you get hungry during the night, help yourself to anything in the fridge or the pantry."

"I should get home," said Ziva. "You can return the cake pan to me when you have finished the cake. Take care, McGee."

Gibbs and Jethro saw her to the door while Tim sat, lost in his thoughts. For a few minutes Gibbs chatted quietly with Ziva, but when she left and Gibbs turned around, Tim was gone.

- - - - -

Jethro bypassed his fancy dog bed that night, and instead slept on Tim's bed in Gibbs' guest room. Tim might have appreciated the dog's action, had he been aware of it, but his mind was elsewhere as he tossed and turned in his sleep. It was a new feeling to let down someone who didn't exist: Thom E Gemcity himself.

"_What's the matter with you, McGee?"_ Gemcity—richly dressed, as always—scolded. _"You're stifling my lifestyle!" _Indeed. Instead of three beautiful girls on his arms, now he only had two.

"I'm sorry," Tim murmured in his sleep.

"_You're sorry? You're_ sorry?? _Come on, man; I need a better excuse than_ that! _Gemcity's characters don't apologize."_

"I know, but—"

"_No buts. Get me back in action, fast, or I'm gone. And when I go, part of your soul…that which you've invested in me these last few years…goes with me. You'll be a broken man, McGee."_ He laughed, coldly.

Tim woke up, shivering; Gemcity's words still in his mind. He told himself it was only a dream, that Gemcity didn't exist. Yet there was some truth in what he had said. Disengaging from Gemcity now would leave a hole in Tim's being. He had to reverse this action…somehow.

It was just after three. The publishers' offices opened at eight. Tim knew there were only two dollars in his wallet. If he was going to get to the company, he'd have to walk the fifteen or so miles. _Might as well get started…_

Over Jethro's curious nosings, Tim got dressed and crept downstairs; Jethro following him. "Quiet," Tim commanded at the door. "Stay." The dog was trained to not bark when a door closed between him and his human. With sad eyes he watched Tim leave, and then he lay down at the door, head in his paws, whimpering a little. He sensed something wasn't right.

Tim was out in the damp, chilly night air, already walking…and in no shape to be. "Gemcity's depending on me," he said under his breath. It would be a long walk.


	4. Part IV

**Part IV**

Something woke Gibbs; an unfamiliar soft tapping. _Mice? What time is it? 4:30. Way too early to do anything about anything._

He was about to roll over and go back to sleep when he decided to investigate after all. It could be something worse than mice. Armed with a flashlight and his sig, Gibbs found nothing astir on the second floor. Even the guest room was too quiet. He shone the flashlight in it and found the bed empty. Likewise, Jethro was not in his dog bed.

Gibbs swore and trotted down the stairs, trying to stay calm. McGee was probably just in the kitchen. But that, too, was dark and empty.

He heard then the soft tapping, and realized it was Jethro's nails clicking on the wooden floor. The dog was facing the door, unsettled, getting up every few minutes, only to lie back down, whining.

Jethro turned his head as Gibbs approached, and thumped his tail a few times, but didn't move away from the door.

Gibbs was not one to carry on long conversations with animals, but he couldn't help a few murmurs to himself. "So, McGee; you've gone and left your pet behind. Where have you gone, and how much of a head start do you have?"

The dog could probably track McGee. That was the theory. But if McGee had a couple hours' head start, how could they ever hope to catch up? Besides, the misty night might wash away his scent, confusing Jethro.

McGee was always on him to embrace modern technology, which only increased Gibbs' aversion to it. But at least he stopped and considered as he was putting on his coat over his sweats. He paused, and then cocked his head in some amusement as he picked up his cell phone.

"_Boss? What are you doing up so early?"_

"I might ask the same of you, McGee. What are you doing out?"

"_I…was trying to walk to my publisher's offices. To try and talk with them. But it's…really far, and I'm so tired…"_

"I'll come and get you. Where are you?"

"_I'm, uh, at the intersection of Walk and Don't Walk,"_ Tim laughed, with a touch of hysteria.

"None of that, McGee. Do you see a street sign or not?"

"_Uh… Maple Street? Is there a Maple Street in the District?"_

"What else do you see for street names Or stores around you?" Gibbs asked with strained patience.

Tim mumbled a few possibilities which included what sounded like a bumper shop, a tuning salon, and an elephant cleaners. Then, abruptly, he ended the call.

Gibbs swore again and found Jethro's leash. "Let's go find your master," said Gibbs to the joyful dog, "before he gets into more trouble."

- - - - -

With the aid of his GPS locator, Gibbs quickly found Maple Street in Washington's northwest quadrant. It didn't take much longer to find Tim, who was sitting on the sidewalk, propped up against a light pole, fast asleep.

Gibbs bundled him into his car and set Jethro to keep watch over him. _Lord knows, someone should._

- - - - -

After receiving assurances from Tim that he would not leave the house except to walk Jethro, Gibbs went into work the next day. "How is McGee?" asked Ziva.

Gibbs shrugged, and took a sip of coffee.

"Is that a good shrug, or a bad shrug?" Ziva persisted.

_Teams pull together,_ Gibbs reminded himself, where normally he wouldn't have wanted to talk about another person in this manner. He explained the rough night briefly.

"That is not good," she said, then hesitated. "Do you think…he is believing that Gemcity is real?"

"I don't know," said Gibbs. "He said he realized that he'd been dreaming, but if he was being truthful about that, I can't say."

"We must fix this problem," said Ziva firmly. "He cannot continue in this way."

Gibbs had one eye on Tony, who hadn't joined the conversation or shown interest in it. Then again, he was on the phone. "What do you suggest?" Gibbs asked Ziva.

"I am still thinking," she said, with a slight shake of her head.

Tony hung up the phone. "Boss—the midshipman that's been missing from Annapolis has been found, dead, off a pier near Edgewater. It's about to hit the media."

"Let's roll!" Gibbs ordered. Tim would have to fend for himself for awhile.

- - - - -

"McGee," said a voice, neither right at hand nor far away. Tim looked up with surprise. He'd drifted off in an armchair, an adventure novel from Gibbs' library in his lap.

"Hmmm?" Tim asked, grainy sleep still in his eyes. "Who said that?" Across the room, Jethro woke up, and lifted his head.

There was no answer for a few minutes. As Tim felt the soft wool of sleep spread over him, again he heard it. "McGee."

This brought Tim upright. He reached for his sig, but it wasn't there, any more than his holster was. Tim grimaced. "Who's there? Answer me!"

A faint rustling that may have been the wind at the window, or a soft laugh. "McGee…" but the sound was now indistinct, and Tim would not have been able to swear that it was his name that he heard.

Tim whistled for Jethro, who stretched and came to him, tail wagging. "Let's make sure we don't have any unwanted guests here, shall we, boy?" They started going through the rooms, checking the locks on the doors and windows. Tim wished he had a firearm. Gibbs hadn't let him bring his own. If Gibbs had spares here, which he probably did, Tim didn't know where they were.

_I'm getting all silly over nothing,_ he thought. If there had been someone else in the house, Jethro would be reacting.

He went back into Gibbs' den, and turned on the TV, finding a show about animals. Jethro loved watching animals on TV. Tim tried to settle back down, but was too nervous. _I wish they'd let me go back to work…where I'd have company…_

With a blanket wrapped around him to ward off the chill of the damp autumn day, Tim soon drowsed again. His sleep was gray and neutral, like a fog. And then he heard the footsteps approaching…unseen, but certainly heard.

"Who goes there?" he called, uncharacteristically. It was not a word structure he often made. Worse, he remembered it was the title of an unsettling science fiction story, later made into the unsettling movie, _The Thing._ Not a cheery thought. But he said it again: "Who goes there?"

The footsteps stopped. "McGee…" Like a burnt-leaf smoky whisper, tinged with malice.

Tim's eyes flew open. Had he been dreaming again? Or was it real?

Jethro seemed unperturbed, his eyes fixed on wild dogs in Africa on the screen.

_Where does Gibbs keep his guns?!_ If Tim didn't find them first, there was the possibility that they could be used against him. Springing from his chair, he ransacked the room until coming to an antique chifferobe. It was locked. His heart pounding, Tim picked the lock and the cabinet doors swung open, revealing two hunting rifles. Tim grabbed one and ammunition, and relocked the cabinet.

He closed the door to the den, and sat down to wait; the rifle at the ready.

Did he sleep again? He couldn't have said. But after awhile, when the animal shows were off the air and the station was now showing Judge Somebody-or-Other's courtroom, the sound came again. Footsteps. Approaching. "McGee!"

Tim got to his feet, silently; rifle cocked. He would not be taken by surprise again.


	5. Part V

**Part V**

**- - - - -**

In an inexperienced hand, one might say that the rifle went off accidently. But Tim was not inexperienced. He was deliberate in firing the rifle—only he aimed it at the top of the doorframe, as a warning rather than self-defense.

The door burst open and it was Gibbs who came in at a roll, his sig in hand, his face a fury. One look at the terror in Tim's eyes at what he had almost done, and Gibbs set his sig down. Gibbs got up and grabbed Tim by the lapels, lifting him to his feet. _"You young fool!!"_ Gibbs stormed. _"I almost blew your head off! If I'd had any less control, I would have done so."_

"I wish you would have," Tim said quietly, and the shameful tears started.

Gibbs lessened his grip. "Is it that bad, McGee? Were you really trying for suicide-by-cop?"

"No… I don't know." Tim looked away, wishing the tears would stop. "I just want it all to end."

Sighing heavily, Gibbs said, "I'm not sure what to do with you, Tim. Have you committed to a mental health hospital? Have you arrested for attempted murder? I would hope I wouldn't have to do either." When Tim didn't answer, Gibbs said, "There's a third option, fortunately. Ziva has invited all of us over for dinner. She says she has good news."

Tim cringed at the notion of more personal contacts with teammates who might only mock him. "I don't think so, boss. You go."

"The invitation was for _all_ of us, McGee. _Particularly_ you. And it specifically includes Jethro. Now how often does your dog get invited somewhere?" After a long pause Gibbs said, "All right, which of the other two choices do you think I should make?"

And so it was that Gibbs, Tim and Jethro presented themselves at Ziva's apartment for dinner. To Tim's surprise, Ziva really had meant "all of us." Tony was there, as were Ducky and Abby. While Jethro enjoyed a rawhide bone that Ziva gave him, the humans sat down to a nice pot roast.

Abby nudged Tim, who sat beside her at the dinner table. "I just got back into town," she whispered. "I heard you've had a rough week or two. Are things looking better for you now?"

He grimaced. "I don't know," he whispered back. He seemed to be saying that a lot lately.

"Well, if you need anything, Tim—remember, you have friends." She squeezed his hand under the table, and he smiled faintly.

The mood was pretty relaxed for everyone other than Tim. Although the others talked, Tim was aware that glances frequently came his way. He ate his small portions of food and stayed quiet. Tony was the one who avoided looking at him, and this still hurt.

At the end of the main course, after more talk, Ziva stood up. "Before I bring in desert, after Tony—" she nudged him "—helps me clear the table, I want to make an announcement. It is good news, and I have had trouble keeping it to myself for this long.

"McGee has had a difficult couple of weeks. His editor left her job. His manuscript did not sell. I set out today, in…well; _some_ of it was my off-duty time—" Here Gibbs rolled his eyes while the others laughed and even Tim cracked a smile. "—to find out why. It seems the company has downsized and reorganized. McGee's editor is now editing sports books in Sacramento, California.

"I knew there must be a market for his manuscript, so I called contacts and looked around. I posed as your agent, McGee, but the deception was necessary. And I found a very nice woman in a publishing house in Kansas City. She's read your books and is a fan. She faxed me a proposed contract for your manuscript. The first page mentions an advance. Here." She handed papers to Tim, pushing aside Tony who was trying to see them.

Tim's eyes went right to the advance paragraph, and after a moment, he started to cry. The number there was not as great as what the other firm had given him for his second book, but it was more than sufficient to take him out of debt. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you." The others, save Tony, applauded.

Abby noticed this and turned on Tony. "Why aren't you happy for Tim?"

Ducky cleared his throat. "This is a joyous occasion. I don't think this is the time for accusations—"

Tony stood and leaned across the table, glaring at Tim. "I'll tell you why I'm not happy. I feel insulted and neglected; that's why.

"McGee, you got yourself into a really bad mess. Serious enough to pull anyone up short. I'd noticed that you had started to lose weight…that you were skipping lunch…even saw you once on M Street, with your thumb out, looking to hitchhike. I drove by you once. Did you see me? I don't think you did, but I saw you. And I was so surprised that I didn't even think to stop. All that occurred to me is that for some reason, you wouldn't even take the Metro or the bus home. You were broke. And you hadn't said a word to us. Your friends. At least, I'd _thought_ we were your friends."

Tony swore, and went on. "You have this Happy-Little-McGee world notion that every day is a sunny day, and friends are the lumps of flesh that are there when you have something to smile about. Well, Mr. Happy Family Man, I come from a darker reality, where there are bleak days as well as bright ones. In my world—which is the _real_ one, by the way—friends are the people who are there for you when you need them to be. Sure, anyone can sit and drink margaritas with you when the going's good. But that's a false level of friendship. That's Gemcity's society world.

"The friends you should be trying to count on are the ones that will flock to you when you're in trouble. Who will stand by you and give you support when you're off-balance –even if you think you don't need them. Those are the people who really care about you. And man, it hurt me like hell when I realized you were in some serious trouble and hadn't come to me. I would have helped you. But you treated me like I wasn't your friend at all." Tony lowered his head and then sat back down, finally all talked out.

Tim was stunned by the speech. "I'm sorry, Tony. I didn't mean—I didn't think—"

Abby spoke up. "A wise woman said, 'Friends…help you move. Real friends…help you move bodies.'"

"Medical examiners do the same," Ducky chuckled.

"Who was that wise woman, Abbs? You?" asked Gibbs.

"I wish! No, I think I heard that from Sister Rosita."

Tim swallowed. "I guess I didn't realize all the help I could have asked for. The money isn't the important thing. I guess it never was. If I'd only talked to you guys, first…but you helped me, despite myself. Gibbs, you took me under your roof. Ducky, you looked after my health. Ziva, all the work that you did to find me a new publisher—I can't thank you enough for that!"

"I should have done something," Tony said, now a bit embarrassed, "besides feeling angry at you. It's because I rib you a lot about the books, isn't it? I drive you away."

"Well, maybe…but that's just your joking style." He reached out a hand and Tony shook it, then clapped Tim on the shoulder.

- - - - -

When the dinner party broke up, Gibbs drove Tim and Jethro back to his house. "I promised Ducky I'd see that you'd stay fed. I know it's going to be about a week before your advance check comes in. So I'll guess you'll be with me a while longer."

"Thanks, boss."

After some silence, Gibbs asked, "Do you still think Gemcity has the better life?"

At this, Tim smiled. "Not anymore. I have the friends that he doesn't."

- END -


End file.
